Wine and Water (Fool Me Again Series-Pt 3)
by JohnQKole
Summary: After the episode Sucker Punch, Beckett reaches out to Castle. Their seemingly simple arrangement grows more complex. Another oneshot in the Fool Me Again universe.


**A/N-this takes place after **_**Sucker Punch,**_** and is in the **_**Fool Me Again Universe**_**. You don't need to read the previous stories in the series first, but they do give context. In this universe, the pair have a physical and casual-ish relationship going on off screen. I think the closing to the episode had such fantastic potential between them, so I wanted to use that jumping off point here. Not much plot, but some romance and lovin'.**

* * *

**Wine and Water**

Alexis pauses briefly on her way to her room to kiss her father's cheek, telling him she's going to study before bed. His phone chimes as he says goodnight, and when he sees the text from Beckett that only says _Busy? _he fumbles the device to the point that he nearly drops it.

His daughter watches as she ascends the stairs (slightly baffled) while he scrambles to respond.

It doesn't take him long to gather his things and hurry out the door. He's not really sure of the purpose of this invitation, if Beckett wants sex, or to talk, or if she simply needs some companionship. She had to shoot the best link to her mother's killer to save him, and even after they shared a nice dinner at the precinct, and she assured him she doesn't want him to stay away (and even likes him being around), he still feels bad about how things all went down. Regardless of the reason _why_ she's called, he's going to show up.

Although they have an agreement that they can enjoy the physical part of their partnership between cases, they couldn't really celebrate winning this time. So he went home alone that night.

Until she texted.

He stretches his neck and inhales deeply before he knocks on her door. Hearing her on the other side, he tries to look casual. The locks make their slides and clicks, and she opens the door, only her face (hair pinned up) visible as she peers around from behind it. "That was fast," she notes with the slightest tease in her voice.

"Drove over. Look…" he says as he enters, turning around once he's inside. His words pause as he sees her locking the door, dressed in a silky robe that's parted just the slightest down the center, framing her body and the matching deep purple (or maybe blue) lace bra and panty set she's wearing. "Wow."

She leans back against the secured door. "That for tonight?" she asks, nodding toward the bottle in his hand.

"What for tonight?" he questions in return, his voice betraying his admiration for the woman before him.

"The wine?" she chuckles, walking slowly to him, pausing only when their personal space is shared, and pointing to the bottle.

"Oh, yea, of course." He lifts it in acknowledgment, eyes raking over her.

"You can take off your coat."

"Right," he scrambles out of it, throwing it in the direction of the arm of the sofa, but it misses and hits the floor because he's looking at her. Neither of them bother to pick it up.

"Glasses," she says, nodding so he'll follow her to the kitchen.

He stands mute as he watches her take down wine glasses with care (like they are far more fragile than they are). Beckett appears perfectly patient and at ease.

She offers him a very rudimentary, cheap corkscrew that he accepts as he looks around to see if she has something better to get the job done. Since he typically uses a far more sophisticated bottle opener, he's relieved when the cork pulls free easily. She makes him feel far more self-conscious than anyone else, a fact he tries like hell to hide.

He pours as she holds out the first glass, and before he can fill the second, she asks, "You planning on staying tonight?"

"I could. I can. I-if you want. Or not...if you don't want." He feels at a disadvantage, then says, "Why?"

"As a cop, if you're planning on driving tonight, we should limit how much you drink."

Her excuse is a lie, they both know it, but neither acknowledge it.

"Right," he finally states. He steps closer, non-bottle-bearing hand slipping under her robe and feeling the delicately soft skin along her side that contrasts the tough shell she wears daily. "Which is it, Beckett? You hoping I'll stay or hoping I'll go?"

His eyes tease and prod, telling her _you don't have the guts to answer._

But she shrugs and replies, "Stay." It feels too easy.

"I will." He answers quickly, a courtesy to show his appreciation for her directness (or maybe because he's truly excited about the offer).

She takes the bottle, his hand still on her, and she pours a full glass and offers it to him. Gently tapping her cup to his, she makes a wordless toast. His hand remains on her side, his thumb stroking the bottom of her rib while each enjoy a sip of their drink.

He wonders if she can see how much he enjoys the little intimacies (like his hand beneath her robe) as much as their steamier moments.

She tilts the glass and offers a soft, "Mmm," to thank him for what he's brought to share. "I'm glad you came," she adds, free with her words today (maybe since she was able to admit she wanted him to stick with her at work, other confessions become easier).

"I'm glad you texted. I didn't think I'd hear from you tonight."

Sliding across the counter so she's between it and him, she looks up at him with desire in her eyes and says, "Have you all to myself tonight, all night. Whatever shall I do with you?"

"Earlier—" he begins but is immediately interrupted by her shaking head. "Listen," he insists, "what you did for me—"

"I have your back," she replies devoutly. "And I know you have mine."

Her hand slides up his arm, squeezing his biceps like a quick, impromptu hug, and then she closes that discussion when she steps away. She fills the wine glasses back up and walks to the living room, signaling for him to follow.

He eagerly does.

She sits on the sofa in the middle, her knees folded next to her as she leans against the back. Immediately drawn to the space right next to her, he takes it. His hand rests on her knee, waiting for a few seconds to see if he receives a scowl or other reprimand, but her hand lands on top of his.

She nudges his palm up her thigh, but he feels compelled to offer, "If you just want to hang out tonight…drink, talk."

"I wouldn't expect you to come over to hold my hand and talk."

It feels like mixed signals since she's literally holding his hand, telling him hand-holding isn't necessary.

Trying to convey his sincerity, he adds, "If you want to talk about—"

"No," she shakes her head. "I'm fine. But I didn't think about the fact that it was probably hard for you today, watching someone die," she says, tightening up. "It's not the same as showing up after they're already gone."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that if you just want company—"

He's interrupted yet again when she takes both glasses, puts them on the coffee table, pulls herself astride his lap and says, "Well that's why I invited you. I want company."

Her lips brush his ear, kiss his jaw, and her body sits hotly above his, already alluringly welcoming. She holds his face in her hands, sharing a fleetingly tender kiss before she slides her teeth over her lower lip. With a temptingly teasing tone, she suggests, "Would you like some_...company_?"

He nods, head moving widely up and down to demonstrate strong agreement. "I would love that."

Her fingers move to the buttons on his striped dress shirt, and she unbuttons each, unrushed and fastidious, her eyes focused on the task instead of his face. He gets to watch her, so close their noses almost touch. When her eyes meet his, she offers him an expression that, to most, would seem like barely a smile, but to him feels like evidence of a secret shared and a bond forged.

Something makes this time different from before. Every time they've ended up sharing company (carnally speaking), the first time is rushed, usually with most of their clothes on, a wild tide of passions crashing through the floodgates.

This time is intentional. Purposeful.

Castle relishes the bursts of fire that ignite between them each and every time that happens, but he also enjoys the follow-ups they typically have later in the night, the less frenzied times when they're completely unclothed and in bed together. But even though he doesn't admit it to anyone else, the moments after they part ways always feel a bit lonely. And uncertain.

Before he came to her door this evening, he thought she might be feeling sadness or defeat (after all, her best link to the mystery she'd do anything to solve has been taken from her), but she doesn't look like she's experiencing any of those emotions right now. If anything, her look is nearing affection, but _clearly_ he's misinterpreting. _Right? _

She appears somehow softer tonight, her eyes, her skin, her hair, even her smile.

When his shirt is open, he has to twist and lift to get out of it, feeling rather ungraceful compared to her, but she doesn't point any of that out. She touches him immediately (like she's been longing to do so), her palms rubbing up over his forearms and moving to his shoulders, soaking up the feeling of him. She leans forward, kissing his jaw, her teeth catching his earlobe and tugging as she breathes a heavy sigh into his ear.

This slow pace, this foreplay that consists of little but her body against his as she undresses him, has him tied up in knots he has no idea how to untie without her.

He presses his hand on her belly below her ribs so she'll sit back. There is something about her, a graceful confidence, that he doesn't think anyone else possesses, and it's most evident in her eyes. Even when she's being tender, that look is absolutely feral. The tip of his index finger moves up the center of her body, following the line of her collarbone to her shoulder. A few of his fingers brush the silky robe away from her, letting it fall to the side. He bares one shoulder at a time, just so he can enjoy exposing each. And she allows it, for once not taking his hand to hurry things along.

Once he unhooks and removes her bra, taking a breast in each hand, he realizes how few times he's really seen her topless well enough to sit back and appreciate her body. And _that_...is a shame.

He takes a nipple in his mouth, his tongue massaging, and she enjoys this, but the moment he tightens his lips and offers some devoted suction, she cries out. Her arms cross behind his head, holding him close, her lap hovering just a little more above his. She's not rushing, not ordering him or his various body parts into position. No, she's letting him explore her, moving to the next breast when he's ready, unwilling to fast forward even though his physiology lacks the patience of his heart.

He wonders if he's dawdled too long when she slips off his lap and stands, pulling him to his feet before her. She presses her palm against the front of his pants, rubbing firmly and giving him some of the contact his body demands, the touch ending too soon before she starts on his belt and zipper while he kicks to get out of his shoes. He doesn't want either of them to be wearing a damn thing, to be stripped down bare as nature intended.

As soon as he has not a scrap more on him, he sits, his hands cupping her ass, his teeth snagging the waistband of her panties and dragging them down her legs before they drop the rest of the way. And he pulls her right back on top of him before she can say a thing. He doesn't want to move or go anywhere, or let anything stop the moment they're living right now. It feels almost too good.

He guides her hand (typically her move) bringing her finger to the warm cleft between her legs and sliding it through the gushing desire that awaits them. Her eyes flutter a little as they roll up, her breath immediately heavier and quicker as her hips tip slightly forward, welcoming this.

In that sexy voice, her seductive voice that sounds different when she's this excited, she says, "Are you into that? Watching women get themselves off?" She's confident (maybe cocky) but not disapproving.

"We both know I'm not good at 'waiting in the car.'"

With a playful eye roll and a shake of her head, she agrees, "Not one of your strengths."

With the utmost seriousness, he continues, "I just want you to know what I confirm every single time we're together."

"And what's that?"

"That I make you this hot, Beckett. You know why?"

"Why?" she awaits this response like she's anticipating a joke.

"Because your body knows something you probably won't admit. We are truly fucking phenomenal together."

It is not, in any way, a joke.

Her expression is nearly impossible to read, and he already fears her response to his statement. Before she can reply, he takes her hand, brings the finger that she had against herself, and sticks the tip in his mouth (as much to distract her as it is to remind himself to shut up). He sucks the evidence of her arousal from that fingertip as he watches her face's fightless reaction.

She stays on his lap, her body temptingly near, and it's one of those times when he already feels fantastic, the woman against him making (at least some) of his dreams come true. Forces within him are at war between seizing this moment and claiming the next.

"Wanna be inside me?" she asks in a way that zigzags through his entire being.

"Absolutely," he replies, adding with a stare to punctuate his certainty, "Constantly."

Her fingers all rest on his jaw, and she brings her lips slowly toward him, her eyes moving between his and his mouth. He takes a deep breath and holds it, afraid he'll somehow confess more than she's ready to hear. Those soft lips, just damp enough, slide delicately between his.

Their lips, only their lips, meet and mingle so carefully but so powerfully, and when she moves closer, allowing their forms to slide even nearer, he grabs on tightly to her body to cling to that closeness. All of that breath and worry he'd inhaled and held comes out in one long, desirous groan.

And that groan seems to do the same sorts of zigzaggy things to her, her kiss deepening all while her fingers hold on with delicate certainty.

Maybe it's his hormones talking, but this sure as hell feels like something bigger, something more. More than messing around, more than casual, more than intermittent. He's had casual things, and serious things, and intense things, but never such an intensely serious thing that's supposed to be casual. Both Beckett and his own body don't seem to want to consider those 'mores' right now when there are other things that simply must be done.

Her one hand moves between them while the other curls around the back of his head. He feels her guiding his sex to hers, bringing them together, basking in the moment just before his body will move into hers and seek her depths.

She moves quickly, dropping down and taking him within almost all at once, and this sudden roughness that he's used to with her feels out of place this time. Perhaps it's what she thinks he expects or desires (or what she thinks she _should _desire). It feels good, almost too good to quantify, but it simply doesn't fit what is currently unfolding between them. So after that burst of furtiveness, he presses down on her thighs, keeping himself buried within her, but creating a pause to reconnect. "Slow down," his voice rumbles, "we have plenty of time tonight."

Her eyes are wide, looking a little wondered, and he feels himself falling more deeply for her as he sees this expression. She studies him, and then one corner of her mouth flickers a smile that reads as a nod.

It's his turn to kiss her softly, gently, bringing them back to what they were sharing before, lifting his hips only slightly from the sofa to press up into her. If his motivations are cut down to their truest form, he wants her heart, her entire self, to feel as cared for as her body. He wants her to feel the way he felt when she confessed she wanted him in her life, in her work, bringing her world some fun and excitement.

His motions slowly build, one on top of the next, sucking one spot on her neck when she holds him there and won't let him move. And he hears the reassuring gasps and moans he wants from her. "That's better, right?" he both confesses and seeks confirmation. The things he wants from her right now are both incalculably vast and remarkably simple, but he definitely wants to hear her say it.

He slides down on the sofa a bit so he can find his way more deeply within. As he sees her mouth gaped with pleasure, she looks down at him and says, "It's really good," as she slowly nods.

He's completely bare within her, a fact that is new, and undiscussed (like almost everything between them), and that spurs the same hurriedness he's trying to keep at bay. She's slick, snugly clamping tightly around him, each of their bodies conforming to the presence of the other.

Those looks she gives, between moments when her eyes are closed, are conveying things he can't even decipher. Maybe it just feels this phenomenal to her, too.

He glances at her hands on his chest, her palms flat, fingers bent with tips pressing firmly into his ribs as their bodies seek and find. She moans, amid various soft whispers of approval, "Love how you fuck, Castle."

"Yea?" he asks, chest puffing slightly even in the face of such exertion. "Love how you fuck, too."

That confession seems to push her over. He witnesses (again) something he thinks about when he reminiscences on their encounters. It's the _way_ she shivers when she has a truly intense orgasm, a quiver that starts within her core and spreads to her grasping fingers, her clenching thighs, and eventually her face.

Her shiver seems even more intense this time, those little gasps coupled with wilder moans, enough to make him disregard the possibility that they're rolling dice (or maybe they aren't...Beckett doesn't seem fond of dice rolling). Her shiver becomes his, osmosing through him as he finds an inevitable climax that arrives hard and fast. He holds his breath and hangs on as these sensations capture and surge.

As she rides out the gradual receding of their culmination on top of him, he fights to catch his breath, his head dropping heavily to the sofa, the muscles in his fingers locked in place as he's still holding onto her. He'll have to focus to release his grip when the time comes.

Her cheek against his temple, elbows on his shoulders, she holds his head and keeps hanging on like he's important. Valuable. Although her volume is soft, the words reverberate when she says, "God, I'm so glad you're okay."

The grip of his fingers finally relaxes, and his hands move in parallel up the sides of her back, his palms coming to rest on her scapulae as he traps her against him. For the first few seconds, he just enjoys the truth of the confession, and then it stuns him. "What?" he asks, chuckling with tiredness (and slight disorientation).

Her head lifts as she meets his eyes, shaking (he guesses she either didn't want to make the confession, or regrets making it now). He waits for her to grab his ear and twist, or do something to quickly distance herself from her words. "You aren't...really surprised by that, are you?" she questions.

Her eyes look impossibly sad for a flash before she orders them to appear more ambivalent.

"You think I don't care if you get hurt or killed? I've been trying to protect you since day one in spite of your efforts to stop me," she adds.

"I know," he replies so devotedly, rubbing her back firmly but affectionately, because if he's not allowed to say it, he still wants her to know he cares.

"So why the surprised act?"

"It wasn't an act. I _was_ surprised. Not...that you feel some degree of concern for my wellbeing. But...that you'd say it. To me. Out loud. In a language that I understand. And—"

"I get the picture."

His tone teasing, he adds, "It's okay, you're allowed to say nice things to me. I won't tell anyone. Just like I don't tell anyone about the things we do after hours."

"I say nice things to you," she argues.

"Say one now," he requests.

"You're not completely infuriating...all of the time." Beckett smirks at the confession, the warm quality of her voice making the meaning behind the words clear.

"Be still my ballooning ego."

She silently giggles, and as she does, he notices the mark he left on her neck and winces. It's not glaring, but also not invisible.

"What?" she nervously asks, like she's waiting for a shoe to drop.

"Nothing. I mean...not much of anything. Just…a little…" he points at her neck.

He considers mentioning the way she held his face against her, looking and sounding as she did, and he's not even sure he could say no to her when she's like _that _(even if he wanted to).

She sighs and says, "Doesn't matter anyway. I have a few days off, and I'm not going anywhere. No one will see. Besides it wasn't _entirely _your fault."

Instead of gloating, he's intrigued. "Days off? We should do something."

"We _are_ doing something."

"Yea. We can do this, too. And something else."

"Like what?"

"Something fun. Something different."

She shakes her head a few times, and he fears she can hear his heartache at the thought of rejection, but she finally replies, "I don't want to have to explain things if people see us out."

"No one will see us. But maybe that's not what concerns you. _Maybe_...the thought that you might enjoy being with me when we're not solving crimes or having sex scares the hell out of you."

After a few beats of silent consideration, she counters, "No one will see us?"

"Promise."

"And nothing over-the-top?"

"Me? Over-the-top?" he scoffs with fake offense. Instead of allowing the insecurity he feels to show, he says, "You're _that_ worried we'll get caught and our crime solving duo days will end? You must really like working with me."

"I told you that once already today. You need to hear it twice?" she teases, leaning forward and offering a parting kiss before she pulls away.

* * *

They sit side-by-side a little later, sharing more of that wine, staring almost in the direction of a TV neither seem to be watching. An unfamiliar phone rings, and he looks at her and asks, "You still have a landline?"

"For emergencies," she notes, walking over toward it, and clearly recognizing the number. "It's Montgomery," she says, "I should take this."

He bobs his head as she disappears into her room to talk. A few minutes later, there is a furious knocking on her door. "Kate Beckett, you open up this door right now," Lanie shouts from outside, "or I _will _come through it."

Castle opens the door, wearing his hurriedly replaced pants and shirt with misaligned buttons. "What's got you all worked up?" he asks.

"Where's Beckett?"

"Bedroom, talking to the Captain. Why?"

"Her phone's off. I've been worried sick. We've all been trying to reach her."

"Maybe," he boasts, "she had a good reason to turn off her phone."

Lanie pokes Castle's chest hard enough that he jumps back. "What?" he yelps, hand over the sore spot.

"I told you my girl needs a real date. You call lying to get her to go to some rave a 'date'? Or this...this little booty call—"

"Not a call," he argues. "A text. But she texted me."

"You waited for _her_ to text _you_? Beckett needs to get her mind off this mess. And not by burying her head in work. She needs to have a good time. You're supposed to be fun, aren't you?"

"I am _lots_ of fun. Why are you so worried? She's fine. Even said she's taking a couple of days off."

"She's on leave. Paid leave, but I don't think that makes her feel much better. They sent her home for a few days until the paperwork clears in Coonan's shooting, and she completes a psych eval."

"I saw her at the station this evening, and—"

"Javi said they showed up and sent her home right after you left. Do you really think she's fine with that?"

"I am," Beckett says as she approaches, dressed in the sweats she likely grabbed when she heard someone at the door. "Everything okay?"

"I was worried sick about you. We all were. Your phone's off," Lanie explains.

"Maybe I had a good reason to turn it off."

"That's exactly what I said," Castle says, sharing a rather amorous look with Beckett for a split second until she clearly chooses not to show any such display in front of Lanie.

"I'm okay, Lanie," Beckett assures.

"You sure?" Lanie confirms.

"Positive. Really. Tell Espo and Ryan that I'm doing fine. But don't mention…" Beckett glances at Castle.

"How many times are you going to keep telling me that?" Lanie impatiently asks. "I _know_."

"The secrecy makes it hotter," Castle interjects.

Both women shoot looks in his direction, Lanie shaking her head and saying, "You can't take two minutes to call the boys you work with every day so they don't sit around worrying about you?"

Beckett stares, clearly suspicious that Lanie wants to talk to Castle without her around.

Lanie adds, "Or is that too much to ask? You're both so into your little...whatever this is...to pick up the phone and—"

"You're right," Beckett says, retreating to the bedroom to make the call.

As soon as she's gone, Lanie whispers to Castle, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"You get mad if we're not having sex, mad if we are...there's no pleasing you," he jokes.

With eyes full of sincerity, Lanie whispers, "She likes you."

"There's a lot to like," he flippantly replies.

"No. I mean...she _likes _you."

He turns toward her room (he can see glimpses of her as she paces), staring with optimistic adoration. "You think?"

Lanie doesn't reply, and when he looks at her, he sees the knowing smirk on her face. Beckett returns, saying, "Sorry, Lanie. You want to come in or—"

"Oh no," the ME answers quickly, like the thought is ridiculous. "I don't want to interrupt your..._this. _I'm going to get going. But do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Whether you asked for this time off or not…you better make the most of it."

* * *

Beckett gets up late in the night for a drink. While she's up, she gets a drink for him, too. She doesn't know the time. Her cell phone is still turned off and her red-numbered alarm clock was knocked off the nightstand by the pair of them earlier that night when they went for another round. Also, she doesn't really care what time it is.

When she returns to her room and finds Castle sprawled out in her bed, taking up what is typically empty space, she feels relief. For a moment, Beckett ponders what the night would have been like had he turned down her invitation. She decides not to think about it further.

Slipping back into bed, she wriggles until she's back under his arm, returning to the spooning position she'd just left.

She rolls to face him after only a minute or two, wedging her leg between his, bringing him into her arms. As she begins to wonder how to wake him (since she knows how good it will feel to be with him again), he seems to read her mind. Her eyes try to adjust to the darkened room, but don't sufficiently. Still their lips meet, drawn together once more by these forces that make separation too difficult.

There are no layers to remove this time, no costumes or fake mustaches, no boots or stilettos, no silky robes or jeans. They are not at a party or a rave. They are two here, alone in her apartment, seeking..._something_. He rolls on top of her, and she doesn't resist. The thought of him between her and the rest of the world is not an unpleasant one. The kiss that follows is long and slow, and although she could pretend the unhurried nature is the result of sleepiness, it isn't. It's exploratory, the kind of kiss between people who want to share a moment of intimacy, passion, and maybe even _com_passion.

Something about his hands on her drives her wild. They aren't supposed to be touching her so freely, so familiarly, but she wouldn't stop them for anything, the same way she couldn't stop him from sucking her neck earlier, even though she knew he'd leave a mark. And she could chalk it up to the delectable nature of things forbidden, but that's not it either.

Her legs are wound around him, his sex pressing against her mound until she shifts so he can easily enter her body. He pauses, holding her hip as he slides into her, that kiss barely breaking as they meet once again in the dark. For a man often so loud, he's quiet here, his groans and pants barely audible. Each time his hands, fingers splayed, roam over her skin, then close like he's claiming individual parts of her, it feels like he's pulling her into him.

She swears he's blending into her, like the lines that separate them are somehow blurry. She can feel him through every limb, through every cell. It's as if she can taste his presence with her entire being, hear him through her whole form, join him in ways nature does not allow.

When she needed him here with her, he came. And after he arrived, he stayed. Without those two truths, the night would not feel like this. But it's transformed from something cold and lonely to something warm and reassuring. With each passing second, each meeting of flesh and mingling of breath, she craves exponentially more. He's pumping into her, pace quickening slightly because it must, and she's rocking against him, refusing to slow or break away. Neither of them can nor will end this right now.

As the light stubble that's formed on his cheek grazes her skin, he says her name (the name he uses daily that somehow sounds like a term of endearment when he says it) just once, full of longing, need, and desire. She calls back his name, reassuring, appreciative, and encouraging.

His forehead rests against hers before this tender meeting escalates. Those soft groans he gives become hungrily exhaled puffs of breath against her neck, his fluid movements becoming rigid thrusts.

Her unfettered rapture destroys the relative silence, and she's entwined enough with him to experience exactly how fully her arousal penetrates his senses. While each wants the other to experience something truly unforgettable, deep down, they're both simply trying to get closer. Somehow that fact is plainly written across these seconds.

The only word she says in the moments after the encounter as she tries to take in enough oxygen is, "Wow." The utterance may be the most truthful, forthright thing she's ever shared.

"Wow?" he asks for confirmation.

She nods. Maybe he can feel it, maybe not.

"Yea. Wow," he states this time instead of questioning. The author is otherwise wordless.

He remains in place until a slight jolt tells her he was almost asleep. "Sorry," he mutters as he begins to pull away.

"No," she states, feeling the way he freezes uncertainly. "Can you just...stay right there a little bit longer?"

His body stays against hers, heavy and comforting on her post-orgasmic form. His lips flutter gentle kisses at the top of her chest. Her fingers glide over his back and through his hair simply because she wants to touch him and, right now, she can.

At this moment, after noticing a particular ache behind her ribs, she finally (silently) acknowledges the dangers these encounters pose to her heart.

He clears his throat, and it sounds dry. She offers, "Water's on the nightstand."

"For me?" he asks, the surprise in his voice easily heard.

"Yea."

He sits up, taking a few gulps like he'd been lost in the desert for days. Then he says, "Thanks," the smile evident in his voice. He even sounds kind of satisfied about the simple but thoughtful act.

She slips off to the bathroom to pee before she falls asleep next to him again.

The fact that a glass of water made the man sound so pleased and surprised sticks with her.

When she emerges, she practically runs into him as he waits outside the door for his turn. "Next," he calls, side stepping past her.

Beckett gets in bed, remembering suddenly that they have plans to do something later, something other than sex or investigating. She decides she doesn't mind the idea when the recollection makes her smile.

He comes out of the bathroom, leaving the light on within and the door cracked so he can see. "I think you have the darkest room in the city," he observes.

"Matches my outlook," she quips, but he doesn't seem to find the notion funny.

"Challenge accepted." He hops in bed, gathering her in his arms as he curls up with her.

"It wasn't a challenge."

"Sounded like one to me. We'll have to see what we can do to lighten things up," he replies.

She feels any tension in his muscles ease as he relaxes into place with her.


End file.
